(no subject)
Title: Winner Take Nothing
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Addison/Callie; Callie POV
Summary: There’s a statute of limitations on wallowing in certain types of grief.
Spoilers: 3.18 and 3.19.
“Get up.”
You look up and glare at the woman standing on top of your bed and don’t give a damn as to how she got in to your hotel room. You roll over onto your stomach and bury your head under the pillow as protection from the sun so rudely pouring in from the window whose curtains she has so evilly drawn. You suddenly feel her kicking you and you fall out of bed with a distinct thud (and the literal pain in your ass does nothing to help you like your life) and you open your mouth to admonish her but she beats you to it.
“Callie Torres, get the hell out of bed.” At your all-kinds-of-pain silence, she continues and you wish you had at least grunted. “Get up, take a shower, ingest something that isn’t chocolate and vodka.”
You decide not to correct her by mentioning that you’ve had some potato chips in there and you’ve been using orange juice as a mixer and there was one night that involved a lot of gin (and you’d really rather forget that one). The rude sun lights up her red hair from behind and she looks freakishly like her nickname. You scoot backward into a corner and pull your knees to your chest in an uncharacteristic pose of defense and watch her gracefully hop down from the bed and you take note that she isn’t wearing her shoes and for that, you are grateful. Because you know they could do some accidental damage.
“Go away.” It surprises you how hoarse your voice is and you realize that you have no idea what day it is, what time it is, how much you’ve had to drink or how little you’ve had to eat or, actually, how much you’ve been crying. You are, however, certain that there have been at least three showers somewhere in the time that you’ve been hiding in a room that never really felt like home. But a thudding headache beginning in the back of your skull and threatening to travel forward with terrifying speed reminds you that all of the at least three have been failed attempts at hangover cures (and probably shouldn’t count).
She offers you her hand and you don’t move. “No. Callie, get up. You’ve been sealed in this room for about nine days. The statute of limitations on discovering that your husband has cheated on you is four. You’re done throwing up, Callie, it’s time to get up off the bathroom floor.”
The metaphor takes a while to get through your brain - your neurons aren’t working properly through the alcohol overload and food shortage - but eventually you get it and against all depressive instincts (and you take a moment to wonder if true depression can have instincts) take her hand. You brace yourself against the wall to keep her from pulling you up too fast because you aren’t sure if your body can handle severe altitude shifts right now and the last thing you want (out of many) is to pass out (again) or throw up (again).
She leads you into the bathroom and starts up a bath for you and you notice that she isn’t in her typical clothing and that it’s a bit disconcerting to see her in jeans and a t-shirt. But she sits you on the closed lid of the toilet (a bathroom fixture you woke up in front of one afternoon with no recollection of how you got there) and helps you out of the clothes you’ve been wearing for probably five days out of the nine (but you’ve done nothing but sit and watch all incarnations of Law and Order for those five days so it shouldn’t matter). You don’t have the energy to be modest about being naked in front of her and some part of you figures that she’s seen enough women naked from at least the waist down anyway. She eases you into the almost too-hot water and rolls up her jeans and sits cross-legged on the sturdy ledge behind you.
You close your eyes and dunk your head and enjoy the water and listen to her pop open the cap of your shampoo. The calming scent reaches your nostrils and your brain idly thinks that the smell might make your stomach revolt but your stomach and abs say that they’ve had enough of it and there isn’t anything left and then her fingers are sudsing your favorite shampoo into your hair. She gently massages your scalp and you begin to cry. Your tears don’t faze her and you can count on one hand the number of times in your life you’ve seriously cried in front of someone else. You only cry in front of other people when they’ve found you at the end of marathons of self-destruction.
She slowly rinses your hair, careful to keep the suds out of your eyes, and opens up the conditioner. And you hate her just a little for forcing you to count the number of times you’ve seriously cried in front of someone else on two hands.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Addison/Callie; Callie POV
Summary: There’s a statute of limitations on wallowing in certain types of grief.
Spoilers: 3.18 and 3.19.
“Get up.”
You look up and glare at the woman standing on top of your bed and don’t give a damn as to how she got in to your hotel room. You roll over onto your stomach and bury your head under the pillow as protection from the sun so rudely pouring in from the window whose curtains she has so evilly drawn. You suddenly feel her kicking you and you fall out of bed with a distinct thud (and the literal pain in your ass does nothing to help you like your life) and you open your mouth to admonish her but she beats you to it.
“Callie Torres, get the hell out of bed.” At your all-kinds-of-pain silence, she continues and you wish you had at least grunted. “Get up, take a shower, ingest something that isn’t chocolate and vodka.”
You decide not to correct her by mentioning that you’ve had some potato chips in there and you’ve been using orange juice as a mixer and there was one night that involved a lot of gin (and you’d really rather forget that one). The rude sun lights up her red hair from behind and she looks freakishly like her nickname. You scoot backward into a corner and pull your knees to your chest in an uncharacteristic pose of defense and watch her gracefully hop down from the bed and you take note that she isn’t wearing her shoes and for that, you are grateful. Because you know they could do some accidental damage.
“Go away.” It surprises you how hoarse your voice is and you realize that you have no idea what day it is, what time it is, how much you’ve had to drink or how little you’ve had to eat or, actually, how much you’ve been crying. You are, however, certain that there have been at least three showers somewhere in the time that you’ve been hiding in a room that never really felt like home. But a thudding headache beginning in the back of your skull and threatening to travel forward with terrifying speed reminds you that all of the at least three have been failed attempts at hangover cures (and probably shouldn’t count).
She offers you her hand and you don’t move. “No. Callie, get up. You’ve been sealed in this room for about nine days. The statute of limitations on discovering that your husband has cheated on you is four. You’re done throwing up, Callie, it’s time to get up off the bathroom floor.”
The metaphor takes a while to get through your brain - your neurons aren’t working properly through the alcohol overload and food shortage - but eventually you get it and against all depressive instincts (and you take a moment to wonder if true depression can have instincts) take her hand. You brace yourself against the wall to keep her from pulling you up too fast because you aren’t sure if your body can handle severe altitude shifts right now and the last thing you want (out of many) is to pass out (again) or throw up (again).
She leads you into the bathroom and starts up a bath for you and you notice that she isn’t in her typical clothing and that it’s a bit disconcerting to see her in jeans and a t-shirt. But she sits you on the closed lid of the toilet (a bathroom fixture you woke up in front of one afternoon with no recollection of how you got there) and helps you out of the clothes you’ve been wearing for probably five days out of the nine (but you’ve done nothing but sit and watch all incarnations of Law and Order for those five days so it shouldn’t matter). You don’t have the energy to be modest about being naked in front of her and some part of you figures that she’s seen enough women naked from at least the waist down anyway. She eases you into the almost too-hot water and rolls up her jeans and sits cross-legged on the sturdy ledge behind you.
You close your eyes and dunk your head and enjoy the water and listen to her pop open the cap of your shampoo. The calming scent reaches your nostrils and your brain idly thinks that the smell might make your stomach revolt but your stomach and abs say that they’ve had enough of it and there isn’t anything left and then her fingers are sudsing your favorite shampoo into your hair. She gently massages your scalp and you begin to cry. Your tears don’t faze her and you can count on one hand the number of times in your life you’ve seriously cried in front of someone else. You only cry in front of other people when they’ve found you at the end of marathons of self-destruction.
She slowly rinses your hair, careful to keep the suds out of your eyes, and opens up the conditioner. And you hate her just a little for forcing you to count the number of times you’ve seriously cried in front of someone else on two hands.